
ClassJ?S_3117 
Book >(Xa l^_ 



CoRyright}^°_lMi 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



Bon^B 0f a (Hxt^ 



By the Same Author 

Cloth, 75c 

JAGINTA, AN IDYLL, AND OTHER VERSES 

BIGGS'S BAR AND OTHER KLONDYKE BALLADS 




ongs nf a €tt0 



By 



HOWARD V. SUTHERLAND 



j^ 



SAr4 FRANCISCO 
THE STAR PRESS—JAMES H. BARRY. 

1904 



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iu^^ U iUc. mi 

COPY S^ I 






Copyright, J 904 
By JAMES H, BARRY 



> 



TO 

JOPIN WHITK 

IN MEMORY OF 
THE FICKLE-STARRED NINETIES 



CONTENTS 



Part I. 

Page 

THE MISSING FOOTSTEP 9 

A GRAY DAY 10 

DOING THE LINE 11 

PEACEFUDNESS 13 

AT NIGHT 14 

THE TAVERN ON THE FRONT 15 

RICHARD REALP 19 

THE COMING OF THE TIDE 22 

BRET HARTE 23 

BACHEDOR LYRICS, 1 24 

2 25 

3 26 

4 27 

THE CITY'S SENTINEL 29 

THE WINDS OF THE WESTLANDS .... 30 

THE MIST 33 



Lyrical Intermezzo, 



LYRIC 36 

LIFE 37 

SONG 38 

LYRIC 39 

A LITTLE SONG 40 

LYRIC 41 

THE SEA AND THE SHIPS 42 

DAYBURST 43 

LYRIC 44 

LYRIC 45 



Contents 

Pago 

A QUESTION ANSWERED 46 

WOMAN'S EYES 47 

THE SUM OF LIFE 48 

THEl DEW .49 

A SONG OF PEACE 50 

LYRIC 51 

AN EASTER LYRIC 52 

THE MESSENGERS 53 

THE CRY OF THE MANY 54 

LOVE AND DEATH 55 

A WOMAN'S WAY 56 

THE DEATH OF THE BELOVED 58 

LYRIC 60 

LYRIC 61 

APPRECIATION 62 

SHOULD AUGHT BEFALL 63 



Part II. 

KEITH AT THE EASEL ....... 66 

FERRYBOAT FANCIES, 1 70 

" " 2 71 

3 72 

4 73 

THE! OLD MAN'S SONG .74 

THE HIGHER PRAISE 75 

AN ODE TO THE SONS OF CALIFORNIA . . 76 

CALIFORNIA 81 

LOTTA'S FOUNTAIN 82 

MY WEST. MY WEST 83 

THE CHINESE 89 

LUNA'S 91 

A YEAR'S CHANGE! 95 

SAN FRANCISCO 96 

MUSIC IN THE PARK 97 

THE PROMISE OF LIFE 98 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



THE MISSING FOOTSTEP. 

The crowd is gay on Market street 

Parading up and down; 
One hears the hum, the tread of feet- 

The music of the town. 

The shops are all ablaze with light, 
So, too, the women's eyes; 

The cable cars illume the night 
Like monstrous fire-flies. 

I stand alone beneath a lamp . 

And smoke my cigarette; 
I miss a footstep in that tramp 

Which I can ne'er forget. 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



A GRAY DAY. 

The sky has donned its robe of gray, 
The rain is pouring down; 

Few ships are moving on the Bay, 
Few people in the town. 

Along the streets the cable ears 

Creep by at solemn pace; 
The tracks are bright, like livid scars 

Across the city's face. 

Anon a ray of sunshine tries 
Between the clouds to dart; 

The awful grayness leaves the skies 
But bides within my heart. 



10 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



DOING THE LINE. 

I like to watch the people stroll 
From Powell street to Pine, 

On Market and on Kearny streets— 
The San Francisco line. 

The women wear the latest styles, 

They could not fairer be; 
And with what art they oft display 

Their dainty lingerie! 

Their eyes are dark, their eyes are grey, 
Their eyes are deepest blue; 

Their eyes are bright enough, alas, 
To torture me, or you. 

And, oh! they use those eyes of theirs 

As only women can ; 
They know full well the way to break 

The heartstrings of a man. 

No city in the world can boast 

Fair women such as these; 
Who is not captured by their charms 

Is, truly, hard to please. 

11 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

For me, to see them is to feel 
That life is truly good; 

And he must surely be a bear 
Who loves not womanhood. 



12 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



PEACEFULNERS. 

A golden glory lights the west — 

The sun^s farewell; 
One chime sounds clearer than the rest 

The daytime's knell. 

The eastern skies are crimsoned now 

And edged with grey; 
The beams from Tamalpais' brow 

Have passed away. 

On Alcatraz the light is lit. 

The Bay is still; 
And soon the truant mists will flit 

O'er dell and hill. 

So still the town this Sabbath night, 

So calm the air, 
One almost sees the angels light 

Those stars up there! 



13 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



AT NTGHT. 

The streets are deserted^ the city is still, 
Its hours of rest have begun; 

The fog from the ocean is heavy and chill— 
A clock strikes the hour of one. 

A peanut man pushes his truck to the Coast, 
A hack wakes a neighboring street; 

A desolate dog, with a sniff of a ghost, 
Comes hungrily up to my feet. 

A couple of Chinamen pass me in file, 
And presently, into the light, 

A castaway comes with her lip-weary smile 
And a heart that is cold as the night. 



14 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



THE TAVERN ON THE FRONT. 

Down on the water-front, empty, forsaken, 
Stands an old tavern, dust-covered and 
grey; 
Daily and nightly its timbers are shaken 
By the rough breezes that sport on the 
bay. 
Barred are its windows with meaningless 
shutters. 
Locked is the portal that never knew key; 
Filled are the halls with the ominous mut- 
ters 
Of winds that, imprisoned, make moan for 
the sea. 

Many long years the old tavern has carried 
The sign that is sad and too common : ^^To 
Let"; 
Few people saw it, and none of them tarried, 
None of them viewed the old inn with 
regret. 
Brave were the man who attempted to run 
it; 



15 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

Loafers will pass it nor give it a glance; 
Even the venturesome little ones shun it, 
Policemen and wharf-rats will eye it 
askance. 



Yet it is said that in days long departed 

Came to this tavern, from countries afar, 
Men that were mighty of limb, lion-hearted- 
Men who had braved tribulation and war. 
Some of them came seeking fabulous treas- 
ure; 
Some of them came seeking freedom or 
rest. 
We of to-day may not venture to measure 
The hopes of the men who first came to the 
West. 



Here came the miners and squandered their 
wages, 
Bought the red wine with a ruddier gold; 
Wrote in red letters the earliest pages 

Of doings long famous and ever re-told. 
Till the young sun with its golden-tipped 
finger 



16 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

AVoke the great mountains with bosoms 
dew-pearled, 
Here in the tavern the heroes would linger 
Telling the tales that awakened a world. 



Once the rooms echoed the sound of men's 
laughter, 
Heard, as they drank, the clear clink of the 
glass; 
Heard the brave singing that followed right 
after- 
Songs of the home, or the mine, or the lass. 
Now the strong singers are silent and sleep- 
ing, 
Drear are the chambers they sang in, and 
cold; 
Death and forgetfulness have in their keep- 
ing 
Those who once drank in the days that are 
old. 



Empty the house is, rat-ridden and rotten, 
Only the sunbeams caress its poor face; 



17 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

There it is standing, despised and forgotten, 

Left far behind in the city's mad race. 
Only at night-time, when slumbers the city, 
When the white mist covers hillside and 
street, 
Come the old spirits who love it and pity 
The place that once shook 'neath the tread 
of their feet. 



18 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

RICHARD REALF. 

(An Elegy.) 

Singer^ who uow art most silent, I stand by 

thy grave and I proiTer 
Pansies and golden-hued poppies, symbols of 

thought and of glory; 
Gifts from the bosom that hides thee from 

sight of the cynical scoffer, 
Paying no heed to the sobbing that runs 

through each poet's sad story. 



Sing as it pleases the poet, his sorrow is 

often his wages — 
Enters the joy and the sunlight too seldom 

the soul of his being; 
Wanders the eye of the many across the 

most sacred of pages, 
Little avails the great message he gains by 

his own clearer seeing. 



19 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

Yet there are ears that will hearken, and 

eyes that are moistened while reading 
Hints of a life that is dawning, as shown by 

the spirit's vain striving; 
Theirs are the thanks worth the having; for 

these to his teachings give heeding, 
Gaining therefrom the power to laugh at the 

world's vain conniving. 

Sad was thy life and most sombre, and soft 

was the tone of thy singing, 
Suiting thy turbulent spirit and luring it into 

forgetting; 
Winds unto thee, and sweet flowers, gave 

promise of future lives, bringing 
Chances for love and for glory, and rest from 

the souPs ceaseless fretting. 

Vainly the fires assailed thee; for into thy 

heart's depths descended 
Love for earth's suffering children — the love 

that unhappiness mellows; 
Bound thee to God, the Creator, and most 

indissolubly blended 
Spirit of thine, ever scourged, with spirits 

long scourged of thy fellows. 

20 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

Thine now the blessing of silence — Death its 

compassionate bringer. 
We, who are weary, still love thee, and so 

thou art paid for thy sorrow. 
Safe in the hearts of the watchers abides 

every sure-noted singer, 
Binding with bonds everlasting the past and 

the shadowy morrow. 



21 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



THE COMING OF THE TIDE. 

Wait ye a while. Or soon or late 
Shall roll towards the Golden Gate 
A greater sea of men to bless 
Our fields that mourn their idleness, 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



BRET HARTE. 

He wrote, and lo! the overwearied world 
Looked up, looked West, to where above 
each hill 

The mist's white flag lay solemnly unfurled. 
He wrote, and lo! the world is looking still. 



23 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



BACHELOR LYRICS. 

1. 

The fog outside is thick to-night, 
The street looks dark and drear; 

My little room is snug and light 
But, oh, she is not here. 

I lean against the window pane 
And hear the cable's whir; 

The wind is wooing me in vain, 
I only think of her. 

The skull upon my table grins; 

Did he, too, love in vain? 
Yet gladly would I bear his sins 

Could he but bear my pain. 



24 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



2. 



My fire is brightly gleaming; 

I kneel beside my chair, 
And let my thoughts go dreaming 

To find my loved one there. 

My fire is slowly sinking, 
The flames begin to die; 

And I — still kneeling, thinking — 
Can hear the poor wind sigh. 

My fire has turned to embers, 
The cheerful fiames are flown; 

My heart the dream remembers. 
But, oh, I wake alone! 



25 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



3. 



Within my room at shadow-tide 
My dear love often lingers; 

She lays my pipe and pen aside 
With, oh, such dainty fingers. 

I watch the lights within her eyes, 
I stroke her fragrant tresses; 

She gently soothes my weary sighs 
With kisses and caresses. 

Yes, she is mine; and yet I feel 
So lonely, oh, so lonely; 

Away each moment she must steal- 
She's mine in fancy only. 



26 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



4. 



I am sitting alone in my chamber to-night, 
With a pen and a book and a frail cigar- 
ette, 

And a heart for a friend that has never been 
light, 
And a brain for a foe that will never for- 
get. 

I suppose there are many just doing the 
same — 

Whispering softly one musical name. 

There are hundreds of fellov^s just sitting 

like this, 
With a pen, or a book, or a pipe in their 

hand; 
But they don^t do much work, for they know 

what they miss 
While the world thinks them happy — well, 

few understand. 
A man who is lonely must shoulder his load 
And smile as he travels the thorn-beset road. 



27 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

There are others, of course, with a happier 
fate. 
Do they know what they've gained? Well, 
I doubt it, my friend. 

'Tis the man who was robbed of his early 
loved mate 
Who thinks of the blessings the gods some- 
times send; 

'Tis he who could speak of love's value and 
cost, 

He knows it too well — for the poor devil lost ! 



28 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



THE CITY'S SENTINEL. 

Superbly grand, this sentry lifts its head 
To where the four great breezes roam on 

high 
And guard the star-specked highways of 
the sky. 

Ablaze with light, like home of genii, 
Its slender shaft shoots upward, while the 

Night 
Her sad face veils, despairing, at the sight. 

The sunshine bathes its face, impassive, 

white; 
The ghostly mists — lost souls that yearn 

for rest — 
Glide slowly past, beneath its stately crest. 

Stand long, stand strong, thou sentry of the 
West, 
And be a mute incentive to each Son 
To crown the work by Pioneer begun. 



29 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



THE WINDS OF THE WESTLANDS. 

Over the breasts of the mountains^ 
Into the dew-sparkling bowers^ 

Sporting with brooks and with fountains, 
Kissing the wondering flowers, 

Wander the winds of the Westlands. 

Fx)rth from the heaven's high porches 
Burst they along with the morning; 

Dimming the stars' feeble torches, 
Passing with boisterous warning 

Down through the night's vanquished 
shadows. 

Over each weary-faced city 
Groaning aloud in its anguish, 

Pause they in infinite pity, 

Seeing such multitudes languish. 

Crushed by the hand of oppression. 

Men are no longer as brothers, 

Each has to fight or go under; 
Pale are the beautiful mothers, 



30 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

neariiig life's terrible thunder; 
White are the cheeks of the children. 

Loud is the master's harsh laughter 
E'en while the skies o'er him darken; 

Who cares for what may come after? 
Who to the message will hearken 

Borne by the winds of the heavens? 

Never the winds cease their chanting, 
Echoed by canyons and passes; 

There where the hillsides are slanting 
Write they a name on the grasses. 

Luring the footsteps of angels. 

Poets and prophets and sages 
Tell of the message they carry; 

^^Upward and on through the ages 
Passes the race, nor may tarry 

E'en till the last sees the sunlight. 

^^E'en till all sorrow is driven 
Out of the world's dusty places; 

E'en till the darkness is riven, 
Veiling the light in the faces 

Even of God's chosen people." 



31 



SONGS OF A CITY, 

Those are the words (will you listen?) 
Sung by the winds as they wander 

Over the grass blades that glisten 
Ever so brightly up yonder. 

Up on those beautiful hillsides. 

Eve time! A cattle bell ringing; 

Bees rise from honey-sweet clover; 
Winds at the i)ortal are singing 

Deeds of the day time now over, 
Asking God's grace for the night time. 



32 



SONGS OF A CITY, 



THE MIST. 

The mist is Sau Francisco's veil 
With which she hides her eyes 

At even-tide, when sunbeams fall, 
From yon enamored skies. 

It leaves the grey Pacific's breast 

And decks her till the day, 
White-limbed and ruddy-cheeked, hasl(\s 
West 

And drives the night away. 



33 



%nral ^ntnmtzzo. 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



LYRIC. 

Within a garden bright 
A rosebud lifts her head; 

At morn, at noon, at night, 
The wind is thither led. 

It creeps across the sky, 
It nestles by its rose; 

It seeks near her to die — 
Its passion no one knows. 

Thy lot is sad, O Wind! 

Though true thy love may be, 
Each rose is too unkind 

To heed thy love or thee. 



86 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



LIFE. 

A bridgeless river rolls between 
Two banks that are as one; — 

Two lovers decked in fairest green 
And wooed bv wind and sun. 

Across the gulf by night and day 
Their loving looks they dart; 

The river still pursues its way 
And keeps them both apart. 



37 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



SONG. 

I once was youngs alas^ 

Nor knew the worth of love; 

I saw Fame slowly pass 
Along the heights above; 

Love called to me to stay, 

Fame beckoned me away — 

^^Were I but old!" I thought. 

The days are shorter now, 

Fame still is far ahead; 

No laurels deck my brow. 

Gray hairs are there instead. 
Alone I tread Life's plain, 
Love will not come again — 

"Were I but young!'' I sigh. 
"Were I but young!" 



38 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



LYRIC. 

O liappy winds that kiss the flowers, 
O laughing winds, that woo the sea, 

Ye little care though pass the hours — 
Ye live and love eternally. 

But we poor phantoms, resting never, 
Whose flights are measured by the day, 

Live once, love once, and hunger ever^ 
Then sleep a sleep that lasts alway. 



39 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



A LITTLE SONG. 

Go, little song, and greet my love 
Who lives in the peaceful south; 

Join with the scented winds that touch- 
Oh, envied winds! — her mouth. 

Ask her to turn her eyes in pity 

To one who waits in the restless city, 
Thinking of her. 

Go, little song, and greet my love, 

And bid her come to me; 
Tell her a lover's voice is good — 

As good as the voice of the sea. 
Tell her the stars that shine above her 
Weep when they see her weary lover 
Grieving for her. 



40 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



LYRIC. 

Saddest singer in the grove 

Is the dove; 
Yet it has a treasure trove 

In its love. 
Blows the wind from east or west. 
Peace there is within the nest 
With its mate of downy breast, 

Never old. 

To an image in my heart 

I must sing; 
None will ever know the smart 

Longings bring. 
Sweet may be the poet's lays. 
Maidens know too well what pays; 
Love stands begging nowadays 

In the cold. 



41 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



THE SEA AND THE SHIPS. 

The sad sea loves each mighty ship 
That nestles on its breast, 

And seeks to hold it there for aye — 
It longs to be caressed. 

The mighty ships have iron hearts, 
They speed toward the shore; 

They leave the weary waves behind 
That mourn for evermore. 



42 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



DAYBURST. 

A mass of roofs that gleam with silvery light, 
A far-oflf noise as though a giant wakes; 

One single star — a lonely anchorite 

That keeps still watch until the young 
day breaks. 

A pregnant cloud, with golden glory filled, 
Which rises slowly to the purpled rim 

And then swells over, while the world is 
thrilled 
To hear the music of the first bird's hvmn. 



43 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



LYRIC. 

The sunbeams woo the grayest dawn; 

The saddest song must cease; 
To every bird, howe'er forlorn, 

There comes a time of peace. 

Each dew-kissed flow'ret finds a bee, 
The lonely winds find rest; 

Each child can seek a mother^s knee, 
Each soul a Father's breast. 

Beside each thorn a rosebud lies, 
The ripples woo the sands, 

The heart alone forever sighs, 
And no one understands. 



U 



SONGS OF A CITY, 



LYRIC. 

A vietim I to one disease 
That mocks my doctor's art; 

No gentle fancies flock to please 
A melancholy heart. 

The bees will shun the blossoms raped 

By truant winds or rain; 
Shall Love abide in shrines dark-draped, 

And sing his songs in vain? 

For Love is young, not patient he; 

Though blind, he loves the light. 
He fears the place where grief may be 

As sunflowers fear the night. 



45 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



A QUESTION ANSWERED, 

^^Wliy this ceaseless striving? 

Is it an;y good — 
Plotting and conniving, 

Nothing understood? 

*^ Days and nights will follow 
Till Time's web be skeined; 

Happiness and Sorrow 
Both are pre-ordained! '' 

"Granted; but soul fires 

Still may purify! 
Take away desires 

What but brute am I? 

" Win or lose, strive ever ; 

Time ordained brings rest; 
God's great plan fails never. 

Fear not; He knows best." 



46 



SONQS OF A CITY. 



\ 



WOMAN^S EYES. 

Eyes of blue are fanciful, 

Like the summer's sky; 
Eyes of brown are eyes of love. 

Trustful till they die. 

Ej'es of grey are wise and pure, 

Fearless, never shrink; 
Eyes of black are eloquent. 

But they seldom think. 

Therefore choose the gray or brown. 

And thou soon wilt find 
All the wealth of heart and soul 

Smouldering behind. 



47 



SONGS OF A CITY, 



THE SUM OF LIFE, 

We laugh till noon. 

Then shadows creep 
Across our path; 
And, none too soon. 

We fall asleep. 



48 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



THE DEW. 

In Paradise an angel stands, 

Of loving heart and tender mien; 

Her face is covered by her hands, 

For she is weeping. 
The Earth below is steeped in gloom, 
The grass looks sordid, old and drj^; 
The world rolls onward to its doom, 

And all is sleeping. 

The tears overflow those sacred eyes 
And speed to earth their pilgrim way; 
O'er every bough and bush soon lies 

The dew of heaven. 
The poet greets the trembling dawn 
With outstretched arms and fervent prayer; 
He sees the drooping world re-born — 

Its sins forgciven. 



49 



SONGS OF A CITt, 



A SONG OF PEACE. 

Peace to our little home, 

Love and companionship; 
Others abroad may roam — 
Here will we rest. 



Duties done, here we meet; 

Sacred this home to us. 
(Thank God for you, my sweet,)- 
Peace be our guest! 



50 



SONGS OF A CITY, 



LYRIC. 

I know that thou art beautiful, 
I know that thou art pure. 

Of this — that thou art merciful, 
Ah, Love, let me be sure. 

For mercy doth become a saint, 
And thou can'st well forgive 

A sinner who for this did sin: 
That he through thee might live. 



SI 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

AN EASTER LYRIC. 

(1897.) 

Ah, PhylliSj best of all dear girls, 
Lest I should fall from grace, 

I pray thee, hide those tempting curls 
And veil that saintly face 

When I shall sit by thy dear side 

In church at holy Easter-tide. 

So long I worship thee alone. 
By morn, and noon, and night, 

That I must haste me and atone 
If I would gain the Light. 

So turn that angel face away 

From me a while on Easter Day. 

Yet stay, it mattersi not to me 

What happens after death, 
If I bnt gain one glance from thee 

Or feel thy fragrant breath 
Upon my cheek. Oh, do not scorn 
My hungry eyes on Easter Morn ! 



52 



SONGS OF A CITY 



THE MESSENGERS. 

To the battle-field of Life, 

Where the strongest heart grows 
frightened 
By the thunder-din and strife, 

Come two messengers enlightened. 



First the new-born, in w^hose eyes 
May be seen the dreamy quiver 

Of the light of Paradise, 

Like a greeting from the Giver. 



When the fight is almost done, 
And the after-life is dawning, 

Comes old Death, and all is won— ■ 
For his eyes reveal the morning. 



5S 



SONGS OF A CITY, 



THE CRY OF THE MANY. 

All ye who love and who are blessed 
With that which gives men peace, 
Whose weary brows have been caressed 

By loving hands: 
Bethink ye once of those poor men 

Who wander all alone 
Through Life's thick brakes and gloomy fen 
And shifting sands. 



Pray once for those whose eyes ne'er met 

A loved one's purest gaze. 
Whose weighted hearts could ne'er forget 

Their chains close-riven; 
Whose feet ne'er trod that golden stair 

Which ends at heaven's gate; 
Then we some day may meet her there — 
Beloved, forgiven! 



54 



SONGS OF A CITY, 



LOVE AND DEATH. 

Love is youthful, Love is gay, 

Love is often proud; 
Love oft comes and goes away 

Like a golden cloud. 
Love oft cuts the truest heart 

Like a two-edged knife; 
Love is bought and sold in mart- 
Love is Life! 



Death is older, Death is pure. 
Death is Love grown wise; 

Death is calm, of purpose sure; 
Death has moistened eyes. 

Death is robed in vestments white, 
Death bids Sorrow cease; 

Death is God's eternal Light — 
Death is Peace! 



55 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



A WOMAN'S WAY. 

Why comes he not? The hour is late/ 

He ne'er forgot before; 
I sit in silence and await 

His step outside my door. 

I thought for once I would surprise 

That truant love of mine; 
But all untouched the supper lies, 

Unope'd the sparkling wine. 

The violets I bought for him 

Are wilting in despair; 
My blushing rose — his foolish whim — 

Is burning in my hair. 

Men are so strange; they seldom think 

Of things as women do; 
They love as they may eat or drink, 

Forgetting all when through. 



56 



S0NG3 OF A CITY. 

We women venture much, it seems, 
On what is merely chance; 

And manj^ find the blade that gleams 
Behind a lover's glance. 

Can he be false? I still can feel 

His kiss. 1 hear the vow 
He made that night when he did steal 

The love he turns from now. 

Some say there is a God above, 

And some that it is Fate; 
But hush I his step — his knock! " O Love, 

'Twas wrong to come so late." 



67 



BONGS OF A GIT J. 



THE DEATH OF THE BELOVED. 

Of all long days this day has been the 
longest, 
And saddest, too, of days, O God, how sad! 
HelPs hungry flames this day have burned 
the strongest 
Within my heart that never yet was glad. 
No songbirds' notes, nor winds that sing 
'neath heaven. 
Nor flowers' scents, nor yonder moaning 
shore, 
The deepening gloom about my soul have 
riven 
Wherein true rest shall enter nevermore. 

For on this day, when yonder sun is setting, 

A fairer sun and sweeter sets for me; 
No chance is there for my poor heart forget- 
ting 
In scented dusk the things it hoped would 
be. 
The calm old stars will light the weary flow- 
ers 

58 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

Until the dawn strides forth from heaven's 

gates; 
But ne'er a star will rise to light the hours 
For one who stands in loneliness and 

waits. 

Love, pray me strength until shall dawn that 
morrow 
When by thy side I seek eternal grace, 
Made pure and sweet by life's divinest sor- 
row — 
The ceaseless longing for a loved one's face. 
And though the gloom my weary path may 
darken, 
And tears make dim the glory to mine eyes, 
Be thou, love, near, that I to thee may 
hearken 
And learn the songs they sing in Paradise. 



59 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



LYEIC. 

Where are now those years departed 
When the children^ simple-hearted, 
Beautified life's desert plain? 
Gone are they, with love-faint flowers 

Wooed at night by summer showers ; 

Seek them not — thy quest is vain. 

Loud is now the Wheel's stern grinding, 
Dark is gloom, yet Light too blinding; 
Grope we ever, never finding — 
Children, flowers, all have left us. 

All have left us! Lone and weary 
Climb we up the hillsides dreary 

Where the fairies once did reign. 
Oh, return, ye years departed. 
Flowers, children simple-hearted. 

Bring us rest and soothe our pain! 



60 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



LYRIC. 

At the gate of thy heart, O Beloved, I stand. 

For my sins to atone. 
I have naught but my love and my life in my 
hand, 

They are thine — thine alone. 

All the birds of the woods take delight in my 
pain. 
E'en the stars smile above; 
And the boisterous winds think my efforts 
are vain 
To secure thy fond love. 

Spare my tears and my shame! O Beloved, 
I wait 
To atone for each sin. 
I am weary and cold; open thou the small 
gate^ — 
O my Love, let me in! 



61 



SONGS OF A CITY, 



APPEECIATION. 

Oft unanswered are the words, 

Singer, of our songs; 
Oft unnoticed sing the birds— 

They, too, have their wrongs. 
Wave-crash, wind-sigh, summer-shower. 
Star-lamp, bee-drone, dew on flower, 
Tints in sky at sunset hour — 

Few can these things see. 

Be not, therefore, sad of heart. 

Singer, but sing on; 
Simple singing soothes life's smart — 

Wages comes anon. 
Not for naught those star-lamps swinging; 
Some one hears the love-birds singing; 
What if God hears songs go ringing 

Through Eternity? 



62 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



SHOULD AUGHT BEFALL. 

Should aught befall, dear love of mine, 

To keep us twain apart, 
'T will be no fault of mine or thine, 

Who have one common heart. 
A simple creed is ours, indeed — 
'^I love my love; my love I need." 

But there is one (I shun his name) 

Who lurketh ever near, 
A foe to love, a foe to fame, 

And him, dear love, I fear. 
I fear lest he may beckon me 
Because my eyes are turned to thee. 

But should I go I know not where. 
Of this, dear love, be sure, 

I'll wait thy spirit's coming there 
Where all things shall endure. 

Be sure I loved thee best of all. 

And ever will — let aught befall. 



63 



Bun^B nf a Qlit^ 



PART II 



SONGS OF A CITY^ 



KEITH AT THE EASEL, 

That's how I like to work! See, there is noth- 
ing of plan 

Here in this colored mass of meaningless 
greens and browns, 

Taken from off the palette, placed haphazard 
upon 

A shingle that smells of the forest, a canvas 
that might have been 

Beloved of the fuU-souled wind that blows 
o'er the laughing sea. 

Yet if you wait awhile — even as I must wait. 

Until the finger of God touches my wan- 
dering brush — 

Then from this chaos of color something with 
meaning will come. 

Which, with a final stroke, broadens to clear- 
ness, and soon 

Lies a completed picture there on the breast 
of my board. 



m 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

^^Splotches of green/' you say. Well, there's 
a splotch of brown, 

And a splotch of white at the back and a 
splotch of summer blue, 

And a dark line up and down, and another 
one here, and there. 

And a scrape with a knife as well, and then 
with the brush again. 

And — eh? Oh, you see it now; the redwoods 
looming up 

And the foliage all around, and the good 
light falling through 

And kissing the humble ground that moth- 
ered those mighty trees? 



Well, it is only a sketch, a hint that a Hand 

within 
Guided those aimless strokes, those 

"splotches'^ of blue and green, 
Leaving to me the task of working along His 

lines 
To finish, as man best may, the picture that 

He began. 
That's where the secret lies: "To finish as 

man best may 



67 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

The picture that He began" ; to feel, as the 

color comes 
To the redwood tree or the sky, or the tiniest 

bloom beneath, 
As aeons and aeons ago the Artist Himself 

did feel 
When He clothed the stalwart trees in the 

colors best suited them; 
To be, in an humble way, a heavenly artisan. 
And fashion, on canvas or board, the picturen 

He makes and hangs 
For us to wonder at in the galleries of the 

world. 



Look at the picture now, less indistinct, you 

see. 
Values all understood, chaos become a plan. 
A plan unto you or me, but is it a plan to th<» 

babe 
Or the poor dumb brute of the field that 

wanders amid it all? 
"Why do I ask?" you say. Just for the les 

son taught. 



68 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

Look at the world outside, look at its paiu 
and sin, 

Look at the tangled paths and the hopeless- 
ness of life; 

The efforts that are uncrowned, the ideals 
unattained, 

Look at our grief and joy — ^^splotches-' of 
black and white. 

We, who are children still, cannot quite un- 
derstand 

How it is all a part in the planning of Him 
who guides 

Fate in its daily course, e'en as His Hand my 
brush. 

Yet it is ever so, and the painting will tell ita 
tale — 

"Si)lotches'' of green and brown changing to 
what jou see — 

That the picture which God began will al 
ways come clear at last, 

On canvas or there in life, if man but works 
and waits. 



69 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



FERRYBOAT FANCIES. 

The sun above, and the girl I love, 

A breeze and a rippled bay; 
A merry crowd and never a cloud 

To shadow our joy to-day. 

Again and again some old refrain 

Is played by the cabin band; 
Theyoungsters chaff and the maidens laugh 

And the elders understand. 

The seagulls glide by the ferryboat's side, 

Or dive for a dainty thrown 
By a poor old maid whose gloves are frayed 

And who is all alone. 

I wonder why Love passed her by? 
Or has she loved, and now 
The singing hears in far-off spheres 
Of one with aureoled brow? 



70 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



(2) 



The sky and the bay are sad to-day, 
The heart of the ferryboat throbs, 

As though aware of tears in the air 
And the violin's low sobs. 

The hills look chill and the bay is still, 
As still as a ghostly lake; 

With piping cry the sea-gulls fly- 
Winged mourners — in our wake. 

A maiden sighs and a baby cries, 

And one old fellow sleeps; 
A youth in love just gnaws his glove, 

A weeded woman weeps. 

I sit apart, with a heavy heart, 
And think of days now dead; 

Of a last caress and a fragrant tress 
From mv beloved's head. 



71 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



(3) 



Before I came the gulls were there — 
The white-winged sisters who have been 

The vestals of the sun-blessed air 

Since skies were blue and waters green. 

And when I rest beneath the grass 
They, still, will follow, day by day. 

The throbbing boats that ever pass 
And speed the eager on their way. 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



(4) 



Beneath the purple skies 
My San Francisco lies, 

A myriad flaming jewels on her breast; 
The night, sad-souled, enorme, 
Enswathes her royal form — 

The waters croon her liquidly to rest. 

The while I haste to her 
The drowsy breezes stir 

The fitful flash of jewels, till the mist 
Creeps up from off the sea 
And seeks to hide from me 

The limbs a happy Titan may have kissed. 



73 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

THE OLD MAN'S SONG. 
(Mountain View.) 

Dig me a grave, nay sturdy man, 
Thou warden of the West; 

For I have run my life's short span 
And now I fain would rest. 

Above yon grove of shady trees 
My resting place must be; 

Where I may feel the sun and breeze. 
Where I may hear the sea; 

Where I may hear the raindrops fall 

And every wild-bird sing, 
And feel the glory of it all. 

Nor miss one single thing. 

For everything to me was good; 

No day that did not prove 
Divinity in humanhood 

Made clear by human love. 

Now shadows close about my head — 

My rest is fairly won; 
And there is quiet with the dead — 

For those whose tasks are done. 



74 



SONGS OF A CITY, 



THE HIGHER PRAISE. 

(At the grave of Richard Realf, Lone 
Mountain.) 

With curling lip I sought that chosen place 
Wherein, at last, earth's toilers rest, nor 

hear 
The fretful call of songbird, or the drear 
Dull boom of waves against the sad shore's 

face. 
The hopeless fog had ceased its spectral race 
In search of peace, which restless man 

holds dear 
And seldom finds. The air was cool and 
clear; 
The flowers slept and night came on apace. 

Beneath a mound of simple green there lay 
A man who sang, yet lacks the deathless bay. 
And lies unheeded, though his art was 
great; 
But while I mused the wind from o'er the sea 
With scented breath crept gently up to me 
And whispered low: "Unloved of all — 
save fate ! '' 



75 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



AN ODE TO THE SONS OF CALIFORNIA 

O stalwart sons of the stalwart men whose 
names are the Westland's glory, 
Whose mighty thews won the land you 
own and bequeathed it you forever; 
Whose deeds are writ for the race to read in 
the world's Immortal story; 
Whose pallid brows from their deathless 
wreaths no mortal hands shall sever! 
O stalwart sons of a race of kings, 
Accept the song an old man sings. 

There is no land in the whole wide world like 
this great land of ours; 
Beloved of men with a child's true love for 
the gifts so nobly given; 
Beloved of God, who hath put His seals in 
the shapes of radiant flowers 
Upon each inch of our fruitful soil to make 
ye sure of heaven. 
O stalwart sons of a mighty land, 
What hand so wise as a Father's hand? 



76 



SONGS OF A CITY, 

The Eastland shrinks 'neath the humid heat; 
the snow and the ice assail her; 
Her face is lashed by the tempest's whip 
and scarred by the lightning's finger; 
Nor threats nor prayers of weary men 
against their fate avail her — 
The Eastland treads a gloomy path where- 
on few sunbeams linger. 
O stalwart sons, the Eastland bears 
A heavy cross up life's steep stairs! 



Our land is free from the storm's rough 
breath, the hurricane gods are sleep- 
ing; 
Our seasons pass with a rythmic step 
through the chain the days are weav- 
ing, 
Our songbirds sing with a saucy air — their 
mates in the East are weeping; 
Our land is loved by the laughing sun — 
the snow-decked East is grieving. 
O stalwart sons of the mighty West, 
Which land, think you, of these, is best? 



77 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

The sapphire sea on the land's soft marge 
its white-souled spray is flinging; 
" What strand so fair as the Western 
strand ? '' the laughing waves are cry- 
ing. 
The deep-sea birds of their Western loves in 

hoarser tones are singing, 
As, homeward bound on the wind's great 
wings, they fly when day is dying. 
O stalwart sons, the birds should know, 
For o'er the whole wide world they go. 



Our air is sweet with the smell of herbs and 
fresh with the breath of grasses; 
Our fields are rich with a wealth of grain 
lured forth by the sun's caresses; 
The young winds dance on our mountain tops 
and ring in our gloomy passes — 
They ride at will on the laughing waves or 
hide in the grain's long tresses. 
O stalwart sons, could the East but see 
The Westland's rich fertility! 



78 



SONGS OF A CITY, 

Our girls are cast in a golden mold; their 
cheeks wear the kiss of morning; 
Their lips are tinged with a deeper red 

than tinges England's roses; 
They grasp the truth of the great new life 

which everywhere is dawning; 
The love of God— aye, the love of man- 
within their hearts reposes. 
O stalwart sons, our girls are good — 
The type of truest womanhood'. 



Ye know the worth of the gift full well — this 
gift of the Father's giving — 
And well ye know how your sires toiled for 
that which ye inherit ; 
And well ye know that without true work no 
life is worth the living, 
And in God's judgment deeds well done 
Death's crown alone shall merit. 
O stalwart sons, ye will not shirk 
From finishing your sire's work? 



79 



SONGS OF A CITY, 

Then up and do while the day is yours. Work 
steadily and surely 
To make the Banner of the Bear defy those 
stars above you; 
Have faith in self, in State, in God. So men 
shall reap securely 
In days to come great benefits, and all the 
world will love you. 
O stalwart sons, Love's all that's worth 
Our striving for upon this earth. 



80 



SONGS OF A CITY, 



CALIFORNIA. 

The world shall press toward her. From the 
sea 

Awakened Asia shall demand her hand; 
While eager Europe, in the years to be, 

Shall seek alliance with this favored land. 



81 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



LOTTA'S FOUNTAIN. 

Violets and roses, golden daffodilSj 

Mignonette and pansies. Is this winter, 
say? 

Lo, the sky is smiling and a fragrance fills 
All the air about me this December day. 



Car bells loudly ringing, newsboys here and 
there; 
Black-eyed flower vendors: ^^ Buj^, fair 
lady, buy.'' 
Only in my bosom is it winter here. 

Only mine the sorrow that can never die. 



82 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



MY WEST! MY WEST! 

The face of the world turns West, for the 

Westland is great and good; 
The trail of the world leads West, for the 

Westland is young and free; 
In the Westland one is assured of the oneness 

of humanhood, 
The majesty vested in man; one learns 

from the singing sea 
The songs that so subtly tell of the wonderful 

glory of God! 

The West is a royal bride, more royal than 

sceptered queen; 
The fairest of all fair lands the Maker of 

All hath made. 
The West is the holy spot where even to-day 

are seen 
On meadow and field and hill, in valley and 

gorge and glade, 
The signs that reveal to men the Presence 

that is divine. 



83 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

Red Egypt was great of yore, a queen whose 

mysterious head 
Was turned to the silent sands that lay 

like an awful deep 
Around and beyond her walls. But Egypt, 

the Still, is dead; 
Her towers are turned to dust and the 

mighty Pharaohs sleep, 
And no one is there to wake the spirit that 

died with them. 

And Greece? She is now a dream; a glory 

that blazed and passed 
Across the astonished dark; a smile that 

forsook too soon 
The face of the care-worn world. Such 

beauty was not to last, 
And so, when her hour struck, she died in 

a splendid swoon 
And now she is laurel-crowned, but dead as 

the Past is dead. 

The splendor of India, too, is passing; for 
Famine's breath 
Has tarnished her crown of gold; and the 
cries of a million poor 

84 



SONGS OF A CITY, 

Who crouch in the winged shade and mutter 

for night and death 
Have driven her spirit forth from temples 

that still endure 
Like shells on the hot-lipped shore, and moan 

of their emptiness. 



And Italy hears no more the trumpets that 

stirred to Fame 
Her sons in the shadowed Past; nor Venice, 

nor even Kome, 
Nor Florence, nor Padua, awaken in us the 

same 
Sweet feeling of reverence that made them 

the queenly home 
Of all that was great and good when the 

world was in its prime. 

No more go the white-winged ships from the 

storied land of Spain 
To conquer a virgin world; for Spain is a 

royal ghost 
Whose spirit may moan and mourn on the 

breast of the heaving main^ 



85 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

But never again may sing. For lo! she 
hath joined the host 
Of those that have gone before, twice doomed 
and forever damned. 

The hour of each has struck. But now in the 
West there is 
The rival of each of these — great Cali- 
fornia ! 

Whose praises are daily sung by jubilant 
symphonies — 
Yea, the four winds of God are singing 
their praise of her, 

Of her who is Queen of all, whose glory shall 
never wane. 

She sits by her brooding hills and gazes 

across the sea 
As gazes that One of Greece across the 

abyss of Time; 
Secure as the distant stars from rebellions 

that yet may be. 
She thinks of her sons, and laughs; and her 

laughter is as the chime 
Of silvery bells that hint the companionship 

of God. 

m 



.SONGS OF A CITY. 

Who knows what her eyes may see in the 

heart of the purple haze? 
Who knows what her ears may hear in the 

silences of the night? 
Who knows what hath been inscribed on the 

tablets of the davs 
That bide in the womb of Time, till touched 

by the kiss of light, 
They wake from their ancient sleep and issue 

from out the dark? 

She knows, but she tells us not; she sees, and 

is satisfied. 
And so through the golden days she sits on 

her fliowered throne 
And watches the treasure brought on the 

shoulders of the tide 
From peoples across the seas, whose labors 

enrich her own ; 
Full sure that the years will bring great 

blessings along with them. 

Turn Westward, embittered world, to the 
love of the amethyst sea! 
Turn Westward, ye haggard men, to this 
aureoled chatelaine! 

87 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

The moon and her maiden stars, who wander 

so patiently 
Along the empurpled lanes, have envied 

the sun, and fain 
Would brood o'er her splendid form did 

morning not drive them on. 

Turn Westward, and ye shall be (though 

weary ye were and sad) 
Made one with the sea and sun, and the 

breezes that woo the hills; 
And ye shall rejoice with men, who labor, yet 

who are glad. 
Because they are free themselves — as free 

as the air that fills 
The chalice that must be sweet to the lips 

of the most high God. 



88 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

THE CHINESE. 

By twos and threes 

From out the mist 
The weird Chinese 

Glide forth to tryst. 

Yellow and drawn are their passionless faces, 

Dull are their eyes; 
Blue are the lips of each mouth, closely 
shaven, 

Stranger to sighs. 
Each has a pigtail that dangles behind, 
Each lets his shirt-tail fly loose in the wind; 

And, added to that. 

Every Chinaman's hat 
Is wide in the brim, in the crown very low. 

Other hats seldom go — 

Not with John. 

Work is now over for them. They have 
served us 

Better than Japs — 
Cooking, and washing, and waiting, and 
dusting, 

Stealing, perhaps. 
John is a good one at gravies and pies, 

89 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

And other creations from shortcake to lies; 
And if he provides 
For his own folk besides 

Perhaps he's a pull with his favorite Joss — 
^^ It's nobody's loss," 
Thinketh John. 

They look pretty solemn. And yet^ if you 
followed 

Slumming to-night, 
Then you might see how those eyes, strangely 
leaden. 

Smoulder with light 
Born of strange fancies that opium gives, 
When, for an hour, the Chinaman lives; 

And the cares of the day 

Are driven away 
By visions of almond-eyed maidens who smile 

For a very short while 

On poor John. 

By twos and threes 

Behind the mist 
The weird Chinese 

Glide forth to tryst. 



90 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



LUNA'S. 



Have you never been feasted by Luna, who 
dwelt near the Church of Assisi 
In the Mexican quarter of 'Frisco? Ah, 
well, you have missed it, I tell you; 
I^'or he was a cJiefy if there was one, in all the 
delectable city 
That lies by the mighty Pacific, expectant, 
and dreaming of Asia. 

How oft in the fickle-starred nineties I sat at 

his snow-linened table 
With an equally careless companion, and 

only a dollar between us ; 
And let the red vino de Napa encarmine a 

mood that was sable 
And the Chili con came (caramla !) lend 

warmth to a heart that was frozen. 

O dream-stirring dishes of Luna! What lake 
on the boiling equator 
As hot as his so pa galena^ His entrees^ and 
that which came after, 

91 



SONGS OF A CITY, 

Were hotter than fire and brimstone. Full 
often I felt like a crater 
And longed for a bite of the Arctic to cool 
the disturbance inside me. . 



How well one remembers the mother, an aged 
and stately senora, 
Who sat at his family table, and smiled at 
us all as we entered! 
How well one remembers the waiter, the 
wall-eyed, who said: ^^Have some 
more-a?" 
"More vino, or breado, or salta?" The 
rogue was a native Vermonter! 



Two hours we suffered in silence the tortures 
reserved for the sinner; 
The waiter would leer while we smouldered, 
and swear that he came from Madrida. 
Then coffee came on, with it Luna, who hoped 
we had had a good dinner, 
And couldn't he stand us a something, just 
one, say a small maraschino? 



92 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

How often he brought to us cocktails, of 

mescal, infernal, but cheering: 
^'Con mio, sehores, con mio; Sdludo Ustedes, 

senores!^' 
How often he ope'd the cigar box, or 

thirty-3'ear cognac, declaring 
He loved a poor artist (good Luna!), and 

wouldn't we read him a poem? 



We told him of pictures unpainted, of poems 
too high for expression, 
The while on the coals of ambition he blew, 
and predicted our fortune; 
And wouldn't we have just another, just one, 
say Chartreuse, for digression. 
Before we stepped forth on the sidewalks 
and climbed the long hills to our lodg- 
ing? 



Ah, well, they are over for ever, those days 
when the gilt was untarnished, 
Those days when we lived in a garret, and 
dined when our pockets permitted ; 



93 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

But now we are older and sadder, and daily 
becoming more yarnislied, 
And Chateau Lafitte fails to please us like 
wine that was five cents a bottle. 



We pick at our food like a raven, and croak 
of a coming to-morrow, 
And though we have money, we save it, 
and dream of the joys of the nineties; 
For when a lad's young he is happy, but when 
he grows old he must sorrow 
And pay for the dinners he mastered, and 
the mescal he swallowed, at Luna's. 



94 



.^ONGS OF A CITY. 



A YEAR'S CHANGE. 

So blue the still Pacific, 

So blue the stiller skies, 
So blue the waving irises — 
So blue her eyes! 

But yesterj^ear we lingered 
Upon those hills at dawn 

And saw the sea preparing 
To greet the morn. 

And now the skies are frowning, 
No more the flowers wave; 

The very sea is sighing — 
My heart's a grave. 



95 



SONGS OF A CITY. 

SAN FRANCISCO, 

(From the Hills.) 

«^ 

'Mid sedges tall this summer day I lie 
And bear the waves fall softly on the sand. 
So pure the air, it seems with outstretched 
hand 
One e'en might touch that veil we call the 

sky. 
From o'er the sea the wind with fretful sigh 
Betakes its way across the fertile land, 
Whose flaunting poppies form a golden 
band, 
And dance before the sun's voluptuous eye. 

Beyond the dunes a city, young but proud, 

Uproars its front in sunshine or through 
cloud 
And ever lures new children to her breast; 

A man-made city; one whose voice shall 
sound 

In days to come life's truths the world 
around, 
And wake earth's leaders from their gold- 
drugged rest. 



96 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



MUSIC IN THE PARK. 

It seems so good, so very good, to be 
A part of all this joyousness to-day. 

The air is full of subtle melody — 

Rossini, Liszt, and Wagner. One might 
say 

They sat with us, or we were guests of theirs 

And heard the holy music of the spheres. 

Such air! Such skies! Such fragrance! What 

delight 
Like this to lie outstretched upon the green 
And bathe one's soul in music, while the 

white, 
Stray clouds creep onward, and a golden 

sheen 
Enswathes the world, upon whose peaceful 

breast 
The very shade lies, idle-winged, at rest. 



97 



SONGS OF A CITY. 



THE PROMISE OF LIFE. 

A setting sun, a purple sea; 
One, shaft of golden light 
That tints the hill-tops, and, to me, 
Hints dawn-burst after night. 



Fear not, my soul, the gray of death. 

The still, uncharted main; 
The Light will find thee, and the breath 

Of God be thine again. 



98 



L.olC. 



MR 13 1905 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

Preservationlechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

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